L'Aimant - Chap 59 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 59 of "L'Aimant". For the T-rated version of this chapter - and indeed for all other chapters of this fic - go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".) A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.


**L'Aimant – Chapter 59(M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 59 of "L'Aimant")

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 59: _The Victory Day Committee has its first meeting…

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

This is the **M-rated** version. For the **T-rated version of this chapter**, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**L'Aimant**".

...

Thanks go to _dancesabove_ for tender loving care, both on the page and off!

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><p><strong><em>Previously, in "L'Aimant"<em>**

_Relieved, the older boy crouched down beside his brother, and let the puppy's velvet nose sniff at his hand. _

_"What's she called?"_

_"Wommel."_

_"That's a daft name!" declared Charlie, with his usual charm, and earned a sharp poke from his brother. "Ow!"._

_"Mmm," said Georgie. "Maybe so. But it's unique."_

_"U-what?" The smaller boy frowned quizzically._

_"U-nique," enunciated Georgie stroking Wommel's head. "It means there's only one of it. Or that it only happens once."_

_"Like 'Itler?" offered Charlie, helpfully._

_"Oh well, goodness me," she stretched her eyes. "I hope you're right."_

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><p><strong>Chapter 59<strong>

**Wednesday, 3rd May, 1945**

"Do you want me to wait for you, Sir?" asked Georgie.

The imposing façade of the Hastings Museum was earning sceptical appraisal from her father in law.

Foyle worried at his inside cheek, in miserable anticipation of a wasted morning. He might, indeed, appreciate a speedy getaway.

"What a good idea."

The stone steps led him up into a panelled foyer, where an altercation seemed to be in progress.

"Ziegler? That's a German name." The grizzled stalwart guarding the reception desk was fixing his bewildered visitor with a look that seesawed from suspicion to belligerence, and back again.

The man, a well-dressed gentleman of middle years felt his smile fade.

"I was actually born in _Austria_," he tried affably, his accent about as resolutely Home Counties as it got.

"Yes. Well it's all the same now." The doorman licked his pen unhurriedly, denying the man eye-contact. "And _you_ don't come in _'ere_ without _my_ say-so."

Foyle watched with interest the clash of working-class officiousness and middle-class entitlement, and mused that if you swapped the adjectives, you'd still find plenty of examples of the class war in an average day.

His tongue crept to his cheek. "Is there a problem?"

"Uh, no, Sir. Just checking the register." There was the merest hint of climbdown in the desk man's truculence. The minder of the shop had scented rank.

"Who are _you_?" inquired Foyle, pointedly polite.

The man drew himself up to his full height. "Brown, sir. Michael Brown. Assistant curator. I've been asked to keep an eye on you gentlemen while you're here."

Sensing a potential ally, the victim of the altercation turned to Foyle and offered his hand. "I'm Henry Ziegler. Dr Ziegler."

"How do you do? Christopher Foyle."

Ziegler nodded towards his persecutor. "This gentleman appears to have some problem with my parentage."

Brown perused his register with exaggerated nonchalance. "Not at all, Sir. I'm just doing my job."

"All right for us to go in now, do you think?" Foyle prompted amiably, eyes wide, mouth stretched in an unsmiling, patient grin.

The game was up for Brown, by force of numbers. It was a fair cop, and the only weapon left was an officious dragging of the heels.

"Oh, certainly, Sir. I'll tick you off." He licked his pen again, and gestured with embellished helpfulness. "Up the stairs."

Two precise ticks were entered on the ledger as the voices of the chattering classes faded in ascent.

"Odd place to be holding a Victory Day committee."

"Yeah, isn't it?"

"Oh, I think we must be through here."

...

Sam deployed her deck chair in a patch of sunlight and watched the puppy stumbling up the slope of the Anderson shelter. Wommel seemed to be all paws at times, and this left Sam wondering whether cocker spaniels _really _could be gun dogs, since they tripped over their feet so much. Still, her experience of puppies was a nil, and it had her worrying about impending motherhood. Was it instinctive? Did one quickly _learn_ what to expect, or should one diligently read the pamphlets pushed at one in clinics? Or devour in public libraries all the works of scholars with opinions?

Wommel reached the top of the grassed-over mound and stretched her front paws gingerly toward the downward slope on one side first, and then the other. Apparently thinking better of the risk of falling, the puppy whined, withdrew her paws, and, settling on her haunches, yapped for help.

Sam bit her lip. _What would a **mother** do?_ Sir Frederick Truby King, for sure, with all his emphasis on discipline and stoical detachment, would probably advise to let the puppy (_child_, Sam substituted) struggle down alone.

But Sam was more inclined toward the kindly broadcasts on the BBC Home Service: a Mr Winnicott, whose talks spoke calmly and directly to new mothers, telling them, in language thoroughly unfussed by jargon, to have faith in their own instincts with their child.

_Or puppy_.

Sam rose with (she tsked) ungainly effort from her chair, and made a mental note to readjust the back of it to a more upright posture. Hand on her lower spine, she ambled up the path toward the Anderson.

The puppy padded to the corrugated front edge of the shelter, tail wiggling happily, and waited to be rescued from her big adventure.

Sam's hands slipped under Wommel's furry shoulders and lifted the little creature towards her chest.

"Muddy girl," she tutted, and the puppy's hind paws pedalled furiously for purchase on her pinafore, leaving a trail of dirt. "We'll have to wash your feet before we let you back upstairs to Georgie's bedroom, won't we?"

She fed a hand under the scratchy pads of Wommel's soles and bobbed them up and down before cradling the puppy in the crook of her arm. The spaniel's pink tongue did a circuit of its muzzle, eyes taking in the garden with the indolent dispassion of a sultan's wife reclining on a litter borne by minions.

"Here. Stay by me and play." Sam bent her knees, and stood the puppy carefully on the ground. She reached inside her apron pocket for the old golf ball of Christopher's she'd picked up for the purpose, and tossed it up the black brick path. For several charming minutes, Sam was treated to a honey-coloured bundle chasing up and down after the small white globe. At last the puppy caught it in her jaws, and brought it proudly back to Sam to toss again. Sam racked her deckchair up a notch or two and settled back into the pool of sunshine, while Wommel scampered tirelessly around the garden.

_Now, **this**_ _must be the knack when one has children,_ Sam reflected, letting one hand loll against the ground, so Wommel had a handy place to drop the ball. _You find a way to wear them out, then sit and watch._

"I'll be a good enough mother," she told herself, resolving to telephone her own mama before too long.

...

Mark Griffiths ushered Foyle around the table, making introductions.

"May I introduce Martin Longmate, who owns the Majestic Hotel?"

Longmate slid a hand towards Foyle. The grip was limp and clammy. _Like a dead trout_, thought Foyle. He turned away and rubbed his palm discreetly down his trousers.

Kiefer's tardy entry to the party made Foyle wonder whether the major had also had a set-to with Brown downstairs about his name; but soon the _upstairs_ gathering developed friction of its own.

"I'm Major John Kiefer, with the 215, U.S. Engineers. We built the airbase at Hawthorn Hill."

"That monstrosity!" blurted Ziegler, smiling broadly to the assembled group.

"So you don't like it, huh?" John's face barely twitched, but the atmosphere around him thickened. "Well, it helped us launch the invasion into Northern Europe and win the war, but ya know, I'm really _sorry_ if it spoiled the landscape."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." hastened Ziegler.

The exhausted soldier squeezed his eyelids shut. "No, no, no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just that it took a lot of the blood, sweat, toil and tears your Mr Churchill goes on about."

With Ziegler sent back to his kennel, the group lapsed into silence for a moment. But more exchanges soon ensued—not least of which the awkward back-and-forth with Longmate, Ziegler insisting that he 'knew that name from somewhere', while Longmate seemed to pull a suave manoeuvre to convince him that he didn't.

Even before Foyle could settle down to focus his attention on Mark Griffiths, and John Kiefer's interaction with the object of his quiet vendetta, the intriguing mix of the committee began to niggle at him.

For all Longmate's unctuous attempt at _bona fides_, there'd been something 'off' about the man's display of cordiality. The idea '_Heep. Uriah Heep' _stole into Foyle's mind. _The _'_umble servant of the public good._ _Ever so _'_umbly doing his bit for Victory Day. _Foyle shut the train of thought down when he realised that he was grinning openly. But he still noticed how Miss Hylton's doe-like eyes lingered too long on her employer, with a nervy kind of fawning admiration that perhaps hid something more.

Foyle pursed his lips and took a seat, filing his impressions for future reference—just as he had the uncomfortable greeting between Martin Longmate and Dr Ziegler. The Ziegler fellow seemed a bluff, uncomplicated individual, but Longmate... _There_, thought Foyle, was something just a tad unsavoury. Some _layers_ to peel.

At any rate, the unexplored connections between the various committee members intrigued him. Foyle raised a ruminative eyebrow as he lent half an eye to the agenda. All at once, he felt far more 'on duty' than he'd quite expected he would need to be.

As the meeting wore on, Foyle was witness to Kiefer's increasingly thin-skinned reactions whenever Americans became the subject of discussion. When Griffiths voiced his worries about disorderly conduct from GIs at the mooted street parties, it was hard for Foyle, knowing what he knew, to miss the barb in Kiefer's seemingly restrained response:

_"Maybe I should remind you, Mr Griffiths, that the end of the war was actually announced on U.S. bases a week ago, and, ah, we didn't have any problems."_

_"A week ago?" _

_"Actually, it was an error. But uh, we didn't lose our heads. No dead bodies."_

Subtle needling, indeed, but needling nevertheless.

This, plus Longmate's tiresome and relentless self-promotion—his parliamentary aspirations; his hotel; his magnanimity—all boosted by the awed support of the starstruck Girl Friday, made for a wearisome few hours. As Foyle remarked to Georgie as they left: "_Nno _conclusions. _Nno _actions. Meet again _tomorrow_. _Complete_ waste of time."

Foyle had hung around a while, to see what Kiefer was inclined to do, but the American, his face a mask, had issued the briefest of perfunctory farewells, then jammed his cap irritably onto his head as he strode out into the fresh air. Foyle felt the sinking failure of an opportunity missed; but at least, he consoled himself, John made no attempt to linger for a rematch with a clearly nerve-frayed Griffiths.

Mark Griffiths, on the other hand, had shown more urgent interest in Ziegler, drawing him discreetly aside for a private word. From what Foyle saw, a short, impromptu consultation had begun between the men, just out of earshot. Foyle caught only the occasional word while gathering his papers at the table. Griffiths, he observed, was mopping at his brow with trademark nervousness, while Ziegler's hand reached out to pat his shoulder in a show of sympathy.

Nor did it escape Foyle that, while young Miss Hylton's eyes were shyly following the every movement of her preening boss, Longmate himself was all but straining to eavesdrop on the conversation going on between the two men in the corner.

All in all, the morning had turned out to be unsatisfactory and unsettling, and Foyle emerged in mildly irritated mood, wanting his home. And lunch. And, if he were more honest, wanting Sam's calm, sunny presence.

He had Georgie drop him at the door of Steep Lane, and sent her back to Milner at the station, with instructions to collect him after lunch, at three.

...

—_Bodies._

—_Thank you, Major Kiefer._

—_Hundreds of them! _

—_It was nobody's fault, Major._

—_That's not true. You know that's not true._

—_Who cares about the truth? We win the war. That's all that matters. Just get back home._

_Just get back home... Just get back home._

Kiefer quickened his pace. He had no wish to be waylaid by the tall creep—he realised now, the owner of the place where he was staying. Or, for that matter, by his simpering girl sidekick. He'd hoped the walk back to the hotel would clear his head; instead, it gave his mind a fresh, unwelcome chance to replay nightmares from the Slapton Sands debacle.

He stopped, and with a shaking hand, he lit a cigarette. After a couple of deep drags, he'd calmed enough to savour first impressions of the man he held responsible. _Major_ Griffiths in the flesh had lived up to his mind's-eye picture of the man. Dismissive of Americans, and too dumb to arrange a bender in a brewery. In fact, now that the war was won, the more he heard and saw of goddam British attitudes to U.S. troops, the more he wished he'd stayed at home in Worcester County. He shook his head to clear the fog. _Nah. Wouldn'a helped the young guys any—Taylor and Farnetti and the others._

How did he hope to help them now?

Back safe inside his room, he lay sprawled on the bed and brought a forearm up across his eyes to shield them from the daylight. What the hell did he _expect_ of Griffiths? What, and where, and when? Oh, he could see he had the bastard on the run. The trick would now be how to milk the situation to some sure advantage.

...

"Pig of a morning." Foyle leant against the kitchen door jamb leading out into the garden.

Sam looked up from her deck chair. "Golly! Poor dear. Want some lunch?" She made to get up from her seat, and found that she was struggling again, the steepened angle of the deck chair-back barely compensating for the deep dip in the canvas seat.

Foyle roused himself and stepped in front of her, extending both hands. "Up you come, my love."

He drew her gently from the chair, and smoothly up into his embrace. "You make things bearable, you know," he said.

"The nasty old committee?"

"Meeting of the self-appointed Hastings senate to discuss park benches, and police in public houses." Foyle let loose with a snort. "Do they honestly expect that any copper put inside a pub on Victory Day is going to stay sober?"

"Would you stay sober?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Ha! Might have known. Saint Christopher!"

He turned his mouth into her hair. "Wwwouldn't say that if you knew why I'd come home for lunch."

"I've noticed you're alone," Sam mused, "and Georgie's been dismissed. She's coming back for you at...?"

"Three," he supplied, helpfully.

She grinned. "I think I might've worked it out, in that case. Tut."

Foyle walked his lips from his wife's ear to neck to collar bone, detected the maturing fragrance of _L'Aimant_ applied that day, and paused to taste her nectar with a light flick of the tongue.

Sam raised her chin, and felt the tickle of his curls. "The King of Lycia," she announced.

"Mmm?"

"He sent beautiful women to tempt St Christopher."

"Yeah?" Foyle played along, letting his hands wander to her hips. He squeezed with gentle fingers. "Annnd... what did he do with them?"

"Converted them to Christianity," Sam went on, educationally, but she was grinning now.

"What, _all_ of them?" He pulled back, tucking in his chin, one eyebrow arching.

"That's how the story goes."

"Wull, there you have it. Certainly no saints here." His fingers claimed her soft behind and pushed into the flesh. "Upstairs?" he wondered nonchalantly.

"Aren't you hungry?" Sam teased.

"Nnnot for Spam, especially."

"_You'd_ be lucky. Georgie took the last of that for sandwiches."

"Ah, well. No competition, then." He led Sam by the fingertips, and stepped inside the kitchen, drawing her after him. Wommel, entirely spoiled into expecting human company at all times, trotted happily into the house behind them.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Christopher turned, and with a swift dip of his knees, swept Sam up into his arms.

"Can't have you tired out from all that climbing, Love."

Sam scolded him indulgently, "Christopher! I'll be too heavy."

"Nup. Bit of extra weight is good. Helps me plant my feet more firmly."

"I climb the stairs a dozen times a day," she teased. "Not practical to wait till you retire and carry me full time."

He widened his eyes impishly, and bobbed her in his arms, eliciting a little whoop. "I can't retire. I've got a family to support."

Sam's arms stole round his neck contentedly, head resting on his shoulder. "Yes, you have."

The puppy watched them as they climbed, both furry eyebrows twitching. She padded to the staircase and began to follow, her hind legs scrabbling up each rise of stair with all the staunch determination of a novice alpinist. This wasn't quite her first ascent, but she was used to being borne upstairs to bed in Georgie's arms, so she lacked practice. By the time Wommel reached the top step of the flight, her mistress and the boss-dog were nowhere in sight. Undeterred, she cocked an ear, then ran her nose along the carpet, tracking their familiar scent into the bedroom. The runners on the stairs and landing masked the sound of puppy claws.

Christopher had lowered himself onto the side of the bed, still holding Sam so that she sat in his lap. She searched his eyes, twirling the luxuriant soft curls at his nape around a finger.

"What's on your mind, my darling?" Sam traced one untidy eyebrow, trailing her fingertip over the soft crinkles at the corner of his eye.

"Wull, very little at the moment, except you."

"I've never known you to scurry home like this, though."

She jiggled a foot, wondering whether it was politic to broach the subject. "It's your _American_, isn't it? That bit of work you have to do for Hilda Pierce. The one you w—you _couldn't_ tell me about properly."

Christopher pursed his lips.

"I think he means a lot to you, the Major." Sam waited, hoping he would open up.

In vain. He simply ducked beneath her gaze and darted round to nibble at her ear.

"All right," she sighed, and stroked his hair again. "You needn't tell me. Just let me help." Tucking in her chin, she bent her lips to his and parted them, seeking entry with her tongue. He gratefully received the soft intrusion, screwing shut his eyes as they began a gentle duel. His hand crept to her hair and pressed her to him.

"Sam." His voice hitched in a whisper. "Darling. Need you. Sorry to ask. Sorry."

"_Anything_ you need," she breathed back, clasping his head between splayed fingers, coaxing him to look into her eyes.

Christopher didn't quit her gaze. His hand stole up above her knee, encountering the warm, bare flesh above her stocking top. He hooked a finger under the elastic garter Sam now preferred to a suspender belt, tugging it towards her kneecap till the tension slackened. Sam let her shoe fall to the floor, and watched him draw the stocking from her leg. His fingers lightly skimmed her thigh, then calf, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

Her skin, thought Christopher, had the feel of cushioned silk: the gently yielding softness of her thigh seemed crafted for his pleasure. He twisted his upper body and draped the precious stocking carefully over the bed rail, then lifted her leg and bent to kiss his way up the exposed flesh.

"Love you in this state," he murmured through the kiss. "So ripe, I want to pluck you from the tree and sink my teeth into you."

"Ouch!" teased Sam. "I should've fed you after all."

She stroked his bowed head, heart swelling at his sweet restraint as he made the reverent and unhurried transit from her ankle to her thigh. And all the time, she felt the throb of his arousal pressing up against the cushion of her pregnant belly in his lap.

Suddenly Sam felt the flutter of a kick inside, and when Christopher's head snapped up, she realised with some amusement that the small foot had scored a blow against her husband's rigid length.

Christopher's hand dived down in puzzlement to rub the spot where contact had been made. He felt a tiny nudge again, this time against his fingers.

His lips turned down into a smile.

"Getting his revenge, in there."

He'd made his usual assumption of the baby's gender, but Sam didn't argue. Instead she closed her eyes and told him with a smile, "You've bred a footballer this time."

Foyle tilted her against his arm, bringing up his other hand to stroke the taut mound of her belly. He crooked an eyebrow. "Hardly seems right to disturb him, if he's comfortable."

Contentment flooded Sam's veins as she drew his head down for a lingering kiss. "You worry too much, Darling. Room for everyone."

Warm eyes shone down on her in tenderness. Carefully, Christopher lowered Sam's feet to the floor, then raised her with him as he stood, and folded her, her spine against him, in his arms. They stood beside the bed together and Foyle nuzzled her neck, pulling the bow loose on the cotton ties of her apron.

"You're made for motherhood."

Sam sighed. "Two months ago, I'd hardly have believed it, but it's strange... something comes over you. A sort of calm..."

Christopher kissed her shoulder. "Badly need a dose of that today. Got some to spare?"

They shed their clothes and slid comfortably between the sheets, Christopher holding up the bedclothes while Sam settled, spooning her bottom inside his lap. A kind of peace descended on them, and they closed their eyes. Christopher's arousal softened, parked inside the peach-like groove of Samantha's cheeks.

Wommel, who had trotted blithely into the bedroom, cocked her head and watched them dozing for a moment. Then, infected by their indolence, she tugged the boss dog's trousers from the bed rail, and worried them efficiently into a cosy nest at the base of the brass bedstead. Satisfied with her new den, she snuggled in to chew whatever was convenient—which happened to be Foyle's smart, black leather Oxford shoe.

Warmth and comfort overcame the couple, and they must have slept a while, for when Sam's eyes peeled open, the bedside clock told her that time had flown, and it was ten past two. She dug a lazy arm from underneath the bedclothes, elbow crooked, and reached behind her, seeking Christopher.

"We've slept an hour," she yawned, nails rasping lightly over his afternoon beard-growth.

Christopher stirred, and finding himself already partially hard, made a playful nip at the silken flesh of Sam's bare shoulder, clasping her tightly. Sam gasped and arched, already wet for him before he'd even touched her. The scent of him on waking had been more than enough.

She sighed, "You'd better make your mind up quickly, Darling. Georgie will be here."

"My _mind's_ made up..." he grinned, planting a kiss at her nape, and moved to press himself against her. Full contact with the curve of her behind sent him entirely rigid in an instant. With one smooth push, he channelled himself through the gap between her thighs.

"First gear, Miss Stewart," he whispered.

Sam held her breath. Christopher's arm beneath her curled around and up to cup an ample breast. Her hand closed over his, lacing her fingers between his own and squeezing with him. "Darling! Oh, dear Lord!" she breathed.

Foyle's fingers slid down from Sam's hip to find the jewel nestling between her thighs, and dipped into her natural moisture. He stroked her slickened groove, then slowly brushed around her nub with gentle, circling motions.

Sam writhed against his hands, crooning and panting her excitement.

Christopher subtly moved his body a few inches lower, the better to align himself for entry. "Slow…" his voice was hushed. "Going to be exquisite."

Sam reached behind to comb her fingers through his curls and felt the dampness building at his nape. She knew him oh-so-well by now, knew how—precisely how—to undulate around him so that he could find his way inside her 'blind'. It was a skill to complement his fingertips' delicious teasing.

Christopher returned the sweet caress with interest, pinching lightly at the tiny pillar of arousal that her nipple had become. His palm skimmed round the plump flesh of her breast, pausing to weigh and fondle this sweet instrument of motherhood. Sam's breathing quickened into urgency.

Christopher's hand slipped underneath her breast. He thrilled to feel her racing heartbeat cantering against his fingers through her fragile ribcage.

He slid inside her with a soft, familiar ease that sent bolts of overwhelming pleasure to his brain. He was rewarded by a powerful inner squeeze of greeting and an indrawn hitching breath from Sam, to match his own closed-throated groan of raw desire.

Sam felt the same delicious fullness that she always felt whenever they were joined. And yet, this hefty proof of Christopher's arousal never ceased to fascinate and awe her. She had no real experience from which to draw comparisons, but certainly it seemed to her that he was exceptionally endowed. On one occasion, she had wrapped one hand around his base, and then the other hand just above the first, and been amazed to find him jutting out beyond the limits of both sets of her encircling fingers.

Now, filled and stretched by his unusual proportions, Sam's muscles clamped around him hungrily, embracing every glorious inch. The same fervour for Sam's body and her pleasure radiated from her husband's fingertips, above, below, caressing her within a breath of climax, while his manhood took and gave inside her with its hungry, pulsing ebb and flow.

"Samantha! Sam!" His rhythm gained speed as he felt her arch away, her light-voiced, panting cries impelling every thrust, driving his body to respond beyond the confines of his conscious mind. His mouth wanted her lips, but they were out of reach. Instead he fed upon her shoulder, sucking greedily. One hand took full possession of her breast, kneading the flesh; her nipple lodged between his fingers as they sank into the luscious globe. The other hand continued to torment her arching body, curling up his middle finger as an anchor as she writhed.

Sam keened. He groaned, withdrawing, repossessing, thrusting up into the slick, smooth velvet of her passage, losing body, mind and soul inside her as he sensed her stiffen, hold her breath, and then... _dear God!_ the fierce pride he enjoyed in those intense contractions and the shudders of her climax.

In those same seconds, Sam invoked his name around a sob that melted him. "My _God!_ Oh, Chrrristopher!" Samantha clasped his hand in hers and rode her orgasm with a fury, throbbing helplessly around his shaft.

Christopher locked his mouth onto Sam's shoulder, summoning a last few convulsive thrusts, and came inside her, glorious and hard. Long before he'd finished pumping, or the stars had faded from his retinas, the love-locked couple felt the sticky trickle of his overflowing seed leak out, coating the backs of Sam's thighs and the fronts of his with the warm after-balm of hot, spent lust.

That was the last thing Christopher recalled before the switch flicked in his brain, sending him into the sudden near-unconsciousness that follows a profound release of tension.

...

Long, delicious moments later, Sam's eyes flickered open, and the clock-face smacked her wide awake.

"Oh God!" she groaned. "It's twenty minutes to..."

She rolled onto her back, and knocked her sleeping husband onto his, then stared up at the ceiling dazedly, hands resting on her belly.

"Wakey-wakey, Darling." She nudged him with an elbow and was greeted with a sleepy grunt, then silence.

"Oh, no, _really! Christopher!_" Sam's hand drifted sideways to prod whatever bit of him it landed on—which happened to be the sticky patch across his abdomen. Giggling to herself, Sam wiped her fingers on the sheet, then pushed up on her elbows and called loudly in his ear: "Wake UP! Georgina's going to be here in TWENTY MINUTES!"

"Uhwhah?!" Foyle started into consciousness, blinked up at Sam, and dragged a heavy hand across his eyes.

Sam kissed him on the nose. "That's better, Darling. Upsadaisy!" She fed a helping hand under his shoulder and began to push him off the bed.

Foyle swung his feet down, sliding an unsteady hand around the back of his neck.

"I should know better than to do long lunches at my age," he grumbled.

"Nonsense, Dear. Chop-chop. You've got a WHOLE quarter of an hour."

"Christ!"

Duty done, Sam reclined against her pillow, satisfied. "That was quite lovely, by the way. The nicest lunch I've had in _ever_ such a long time."

"Couldn't agree more, Love." Christopher leaned back and planted a tender kiss on Sam's rounded belly. Then he rose, decisively. "Right. Just off to the—What the devil?!"

Rounding the bottom of the bed, he'd almost tripped over the mound of rumpled trousers on the carpet. From it protruded a busily wagging tail. He bent and lifted Wommel out by the scruff of the neck, surprised to find dangling from his grasp not just the puppy, but also his left shoe clamped between her jaws. He turned incredulous eyes on Sam.

"_Look_ at this beast, will you? She makes a dog's bed of my second favourite suit, and uses my Oxfords—Church's, mind you!—as a teething aid!"

Sam took one look at him, stark naked with a fistful of determined spaniel growling round the illicit leather chew, and decided that her bladder couldn't take it. Stifling an upswell of helpless laughter, she clamped one hand across her mouth, the other to her crotch, and hurtled from the bedroom.

Foyle turned the suspended puppy so that they were face-to-face. "We need to make some ground rules, you and I," he told his captive between gritted teeth. He found himself observed by soulful, chocolate eyes that so resembled Sam's, he had to clear his throat. Wommel cautiously wagged her tail mid-air, and mustered a friendly yap, which freed the shoe to drop heel first, and heavily, onto her master's unprotected toes.

Inside the bathroom, Sam heard a sudden yelp of pain that didn't sound remotely spaniel-like.

...

Foyle straightened his tie and climbed into the passenger seat, affecting an unruffled, businesslike expression. He might have carried it off, if not for his growling stomach.

Georgie grinned, reached under her seat, and cheerfully pressed a grease-proof paper parcel into his hand.

"Saved you a sandwich, Christopher. In case you didn't have a chance to eat."

_Didn't have a chance to...? _Foyle shifted miserably inside his overcoat. It seemed that not _one_ corner of his private life was sacrosanct. He chewed his lip, turning the grease-proof package in his fingers, and contemplated what, if anything, to say. On balance, he concluded that there wasn't much he _could_ say, hemmed in as he was by feminine intuition on two sides, not to mention caught with his trousers down by a spaniel who had tooled his Oxfords into brogues. And so he peeled the sandwich open, mumbled "Rright. Thanks," and tucked in.

"Where to, then?" Georgie timed her question perfectly for when his mouth was full of Spam.

Foyle tried to force the mouthful down, but finding it a little heavy on the mustard, coughed back a spray of crumbs into his fist.

He thought a while. He _had_ intended going to the station; now he was toying with a different idea.

"Ummm... make it the Majestic Hotel?"

"Right-oh!" answered Georgie cheerily, and threw the Wolseley into gear.

Christopher cleared his throat, eyes watering, and turned towards her. "_Next_ time you make us lunch, how about less mustard?"

"Oh, _dear_," she gave him a sly, sidelong glance. "Don't tell me that you're hot enough _without..._"

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

_... it left her worrying about impending motherhood. Was it instinctive?_

Sir Frederick Truby King was a child welfare reformer whose ideas were credited with drastically reducing infant mortality in his native New Zealand, and with achieving a radical improvement in childhood nutrition. He was also famous as an early champion of the "tough love" approach to child-rearing—known as "enforcement parenting": routine, doing things by the clock, and minimising cuddles.

Contrasting sharply with T-K's approach were the theories of psychoanalyst and paediatrician Donald Winnicott. Beginning in 1943, Winnicott made about 50 broadcasts on the BBC over the next 20 years, addressing mothers directly, and promoting his "good enough mother" philosophy. His idea was that perfect parenting was a fallacy, and occasional failure offered valuable lessons for both mother and child. He believed in parents' intuition rather than adherence to regimes, claiming, "It is when a mother trusts her judgement that she is at her best."

...

More soon.

**GiuC**


End file.
